


in which dave strider gains a social life

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Highschool AU, M/M, but a british highschool au, dave is a loner and john is a coolkid, lots of colloquials im really sorry, rating might go up but im not sure, teen delinquents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You thought you recognised him. He’s a bad kid. He hangs out with the kids that play sport and do drugs and get into arguments over facebook. He’s one of the kids that jeered at you for most of last year. </p><p>Yes, you are in his biology class.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> warning for smoking, drugs, drinking, violence, vomiting, and terrible character arcs
> 
> in case anyones squicked by that stuff (this is a pretty tame fic dw)
> 
> also dave is a bitch to write and i never do him justice im so sorry

English is your favourite. Maths is maybe bearable.  

Science is the worst.

You don’t understand it. Don’t want to understand it. You bullshit through everything else; spinning words and numbers off your tongue and mind with relative ease and a degree of satisfaction and finesse - but facts are a no. The universe spins on and on and facts turn to fiction and fiction to facts and before you know it, everything you’ve learnt is wrong - disproved in a matter of seconds, or a matter of millennia, turning everything you considered solid to gas, ground to sky.

Or to a liquid. Or to another of the vast plethora of states of matter that are dragged out of big-wigs asses every day - finding new ways of bigging up custard and telling you its completely normal to drink bread.

So no, you don’t want to understand science.

But you’re not stupid.

Your name is Dave Strider and if there’s one thing you're not, it’s stupid. You like to think you think a lot, and you like to think that that somehow correlates with intelligence. You like to think that you don’t like to think that you think a lot about words, but the opposite is true. So you do like the way you admire that everything is a combination of 26 symbols from the Middle East, and how they can make you laugh or cry or make you want to punch through a wall. You admire rapping and read a lot of Shakespeare, and you tell yourself that you hate the way you can memorise and roll off the latter as fast as the former.

After all, you’re too cool for that shit.

You tap your pen on the table. Reaffirming your personal identity isn’t what you would call a light task and part of you wonders why the fuck you're doing it in an English lesson, if you really proclaim to love words so goddamn much.

Which is ridiculous, really. Anyone who takes up classes in things they love will soon tell you to do the opposite, because, frankly, establishments have a nasty way of making everything you enjoy seem like shit real fucking fast.

In simpler terms, school is bullshit.

Well, no, that’s not quite fair. School itself isn’t so bad; it’s just the education system as a whole. Coupled with it being mandatory and all. You think you might be bored, otherwise.

You don’t like where this thought track is going. It’s bordering on whining and you don’t do whining.

“Mrs. Anderson?” comes a voice from the door.

“Yes?” Teach replies from her desk. Bitterness and annoyance and something else you can’t quite put your finger on. Coffee breaks are short and the job is stressful, and you respect that, so you think nothing of it.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Footsteps over the usual cauldron of noise, followed with a door shutting again. The empty seat next to you moves, and becomes significantly less empty. You shift a little to give the person some space.

“You have a pen or something?” the kid asks you.

You glance at your pencil case warily. You do not lend out pens because pens do not return. “Nah,”

He shrugs like he owns the place. “Hey, aren’t you in my biology class?”

You thought you recognised him. He’s a bad kid. He hangs out with the kids that play sport and do drugs and get into arguments over facebook. He’s one of the kids that jeered at you for most of last year.

Yes, you are in his biology class.

You stay quiet.

“Haha, oh man, I thought I recognised those gay-ass sunglasses. They’re fucking ridiculous, dude.” He makes an unholy snorting sound and you're pretty sure he’s got a hippopotamus in his nose. 

You feel offended, and decide to make it known. “You can talk, your glasses look like shit,” and they do. They’re square, thick framed, screaming 90’s.

“Yeah, but mine are prescription, dumbass.”

“So are mine, dickweed,”

He looks more amused than pissed off. “Oh yeah? Prescription for what?”

“Being rad,” and as you say it you're berating yourself.

He laughs, and slaps your back hard. You grit your teeth and seethe, shooting him a nasty look. He ignores it.

“Man, you’re cool. What’s you name again?”

“I never told you it.” You wish he’s just shut up and leave you alone.

“I’m John.”

“I know,”

He snorts again, this time more like a whale beaching and spraying rather than the roar of African rivers, and looks around the room at the other kids.

 “I haven’t got anything to do.” he tells you, like you are supposed to care.

“That’s your fault - you were kicked out of your own class.”

“Not my fault Miss Henway’s a bitch,” Miss Henway is fifty-seven, always wears tweed, and washes her teeth with bleach.  “Do you know what I did?” and he grins at you, ridiculous buckteeth sparkling in the fluorescent light.

You throw him a bone, out of pity more than anything else. “What did you do?”

He leans over to you and excitedly whispers, “I spiked her coffee,”

“You’re a cruel, cruel man.” you say in a complete monotone.

“With salt.”

“Ouch.”

“She took one sip and sent me out.” He pauses, waiting for your response, and when none comes he carries on. “I don’t get how she knew it was me, though.”

“I dunno, maybe you were giggling like a prepubescent boy on a panty raid at the back of the class? It’s what you usually do when you pull shit like that.” you remember chemistry last year, and the Bunsen burner stunt he and some other kid carried out. “It’s kinda obvious.”

He looks at you a bit quizzically before that obnoxious grin is back, and he forces out a laugh. You go back to your work and ignore him.

He doesn’t disturb you. He just sits there with his head resting on his hand, moving every now and then, like a mantis. A mantis crossed with a beaver and an elephant and maybe also an emu. Throw in a lizard, too.

Ten minutes later, he starts humming what sounds like a Nicki Minaj song.

You shrug it off.

It escalates into a fly-like-drone.

You don’t react. It swims into your head and you cannot concentrate but you don’t react. You feel like punching him but you don’t react.

After a mere five minutes you put your pen down very slowly. He doesn’t notice and continues, eyes locked on the clock to his left. On his right and out of eyeshot, you are almost fuming.

You stare at him, hoping he will turn around and notice that you're really fucking pissed off. His ridiculous glasses sit right up his nose. You wonder how the fuck he’s one of the “in crowd”.

He finally notices you and jumps a bit, before grinning and somehow managing to hum an even higher note, deliberately fucking with you.

“Dude,” you warn.

The bell rings. He stands and leaves almost instantly, slinging his nike rucksack over his shoulder; bigger fish to fry.

You watch him go and think nothing of it besides relief.

 

 

“So, how’s your boyfriend, Dave?”, and she is talking about John.

“Great. We got to third base last lesson. The full yaoi.”

She makes a small, delicate snickering noise. You hate the snicker more than you hate her, and that’s a lot. Rose Lalonde is your best friend through circumstance and nothing more, as you share most of your classes.

You are 100% certain she is working through the underwear of the faculty to gain her grades. She is a true intellectual, so they say, and works hard in lessons - if you count working hard as gazing out of the window and thinking about freaky psychotherapy or some bullshit. You would be lying if you said you didn’t worry about her sometimes.

She seems to worry about you, too, and it was through this unspoken bond you discovered a lot of things.

One thing was smoking.

It is break. You lurk around the corner, just out of school property, splitting the poor amount of tobacco with each other. It is a bond in mutterings and fags and cold winter air.

She sighs, content and away from bustle, and a cloud exhales from her. She shivers a small, adjusting shiver, in her skin tight tights and her cardigan and her pencil skirt. She is a figure in black and white, drama and intrigue, a no filter selfie.

She is as ridiculous as you are.

You shiver with her, in agreement with nothing besides the cold.

“He wouldn’t stop fucking with me, the little dick,” you mutter as you press the butt to your lips.

She ‘mmm’s in agreement. “Every relationship has, from the outset, unspoken and undiscussed issues begging for attention,”

“Of course.”

She nods, folding her arms and finishing up her fag a little too quickly. She kneads it into the ground with her dolly shoes. You feel like there is some kind of intense symbolism behind this, but you are too fucking cold to think about it properly.

You take a quick look at your watch. It is a Powerpuff Girls one your cousin brought you a long time ago, and the joke is still up for debate. You wear it anyway.

It is 10:59. A sharp minute later, a small giggle sounds from the watch. A car rolls past, docile, and you now have ten minutes until your next class.

“You and your beloved irony,” she muses.

“You wouldn’t know the half of it.”

“Of course,” she parrots you. You permit a smirk.

“Hey,” comes a voice.

You both turn to the newcomer. It is the John guy from earlier, clad in a navy hoodie over his uniform.

“Something the matter?” she says sweetly, even though she hardly knows him, and you feel like laughing.

He seems to recoil a bit. “Got a lighter? Mine just decided to die on me,”

She nods, a single, deft movement of the head up, elegant and precise. She flicks her wrist and holds it for him in one smooth movement, brandishing the black 99p lighter. He takes it with small thanks, and pulls a pre rolled cigarette out of a matchstick tin.

You both watch him carefully, like judges at a diving competition. Sink or swim, friend or foe, and he’s not wearing a very attractive bathing suit.

It has always been the two of you. You weren’t even aware he knew where you went - the corner under the lamppost, sat on the sign by the hedges and the drives and the brick wall with the glass and gum on the floor and the busted dog shit bin.

He lights it quickly and takes a long drag, sighing heavily. Whether the noise is for effect or out of sincerity you are unable to tell. You didn’t even know he smoked.

“Oh man. Phew. Thanks guys,” and he beams at you both. You really hope he doesn’t see you as friends.

Neither of you reply.

“So I was thinking,” he says and he pauses, and you both narrow your eyes very slightly. In sync. The diving judges are also synchronised swimmers, who knew. “If you guys knew about this friday,”

It is a tuesday.

You know nothing about friday except that it is coming in three days.

“I’m not interested, thanks,” Rose says, pursing her lips and smiling that awful ‘I hate you, go die’ smile again. You don’t know what she’s talking about, but if she hasn’t mentioned it, then it probably isn’t important to you. You take another sip of nicotine idly.

His unending optimism hits you in the stomach as his expression probes you for your answer.

“Nah, I’m alright, mate.” you don’t care.

He clicks his tongue in irritation. It is almost comical.

“Are you from America? Your accent is really strange.” The question is sudden and plucked from the blue and you bristle, but the only sign is your nostrils flaring. You see her pick up on it and her body language snickers at you.

 “Well, uh, I didn’t mean to intrude.” it seems he finally starts to notice the tension hanging in the air. “Thanks anyway,” and he smiles once more before walking away, fag in hand and spring in step, tennis shoes blindingly white. It makes you feel a little sick.

You scowl.

“Young love,” Rose whispers dramatically. Her phone buzzes; laughs for her.

You drop the ash and butt of your cigarette on the floor, and dig your hands into your pockets.

 

 

 

In twenty-four hours, you have almost forgotten he exists.

That is, until last lesson wednesday – biology. Rose is in top set, and isn’t in your science classes. You are in third, and you are sat next to some guy you still don’t know the name of. It’s been three years.

You are doodling on your book. You run a webcomic online and follow numerous others, and spend some time thinking about plot lines and jpegs.

Something collides with your face when you aren’t paying attention.

You don’t react. The key is to not react. The key is to be as chill as fuck; you have been taught as much.

So when a piece of scrunched up paper hits your nose and lands on your work, you aren’t angry. You are surprised, and actually a little impressed the trajectory managed to get it to hit your face and also land directly in front of you. You look up to see the source, which it is the front row. It is the jocks.

You blink a few times and reach for the paper, slightly suspicious.

Looking around a little, out of habit, you see that no-one noticed. Teach is trying to grade some other, smarter, class’ work at the front. He clearly does not give a damn about the class in front of him, which is in the usual chaos - the purgatory for home-time.

You have a bit of a headache.

You unravel the paper.

“you sure about friday, nerd?”

You still don’t know what the fuck is happening on friday. You don’t know why he’s asking you. You don’t know what he wants. You just know that if Rose isn’t interested, there isn’t any chance of you doing it. You and her are tight like that.

Well, not really, you don’t hang out much.

In fact, you don’t go out at all. You’ve never hung round the park or gotten wasted or gotten high or had group dramas or nasty cocktails or woken up butt naked in a field outside of town. Friends are dumb, ladeeda.

You scribble out a hasty “i already told you im not fucking interested in whatever the hell is happening on friday”, in red ink, because you can. Red is a fucking sick colour.

You feel like adding a “and stop fucking bugging me I’ve spoken to you maybe six whole times in my life so piss off” but it wouldn’t fit on the paper. You throw it back, and it’s not as neat as his throw, landing instead in front of the girl sat next to him. She looks at you in confusion, so you duck down and continue doodling.

It lands back in front of you a minute later.

“he didn’t invite you, loser. fuck off!!!!!!!!”

It is in a different handwriting and a different colour. You don’t know who wrote it, but you’re going to assume it’s the girl sat next to him, as she smirks and scowls at you when you look up again.

You really couldn’t care less.

You don’t reply and you continue doodling. When the bell goes fifteen minutes later, everyone rushes to leave. Unsurprisingly, Teach is the first out.

You pack up slowly, pulling out your iphone and headphones.

There are two hands on the desk. You know who it is without looking at him.

“Did you get my message?”

“Yeah,”

“Why didn’t you reply?”

“I did.” You feel his confusion more than anything; you’re not looking at him as you pack up. “It’s right there on the goddamn piece of paper. Your girlfriend replied or something.”

You think you just hit a nerve, because he takes in his breath a bit. You look at him and he looks guilty, for some reason. “Sorry, dude, she can get a bit possessive. You know how girls are.” he stops. “Also, she’s not my girlfriend.”

“Alright,” you say.

“So?”he prompts.

“So, what?”

“You wanna come on friday?”

You pick up the piece of paper and unfold it. You thrust it into his face, nonplussed and tired. You want to go home and play some xbox, and you wish his ass would leave you the fuck alone.

He reads it slowly and bites his lip. “It’s gonna be a huge party. My friend’s,” he gestures behind him, at the empty room, “parents are fucking off for a whole weekend, but friday night’s gonna be the big one. We’re trying to invite as many people as possible... we’ve maybe got a hundred already. Only real rule is to contribute to the drink.”

It sounds like shit.

Rose didn’t want to go. You don’t know anyone.

You know John?

He’s grinning at you.

No, you don’t know John. John is a guy who interrupted your English lesson yesterday. John is the guy who asked you for a light and is the guy treating you like best buddies. John is one of the guys who used to tease you for being a loner.

John is a jock.

“Sure,” you say.

You blink. That’s not what you were thinking of saying at all. But he’s grinning harder now, and you’re certain it’s going to split his face in two, like some grotesque mockery of the joker. He could get done for copyright infringement.

“Sweet, man!” and he holds out a fist to bump and you do and you feel that horrible sickly feeling again.

You’re going to a party! With underage booze! And you don’t know anyone!

Whee!

You return with a mumbled, “yeah, sweet, dude,”, and plug in your headphones. You’re trying the obvious cues now, and everyone knows headphones mean fuck off.

It seems John isn’t everyone.

“Oh man, this is gonna be so sick.” he starts, but you turn your back and walk out of the room. He follows you.

You head out of school, and he’s walking beside you. He’s quiet, but smiling, and you feel a bit bad that you’re here speedwalking to shitty Eminem remixes and trying to get rid of him. You still don’t really know what he wants from you.

You turn down the volume from your pocket, and he doesn’t notice. With the sound off completely, you walk alongside him, listening to his footsteps and fumbling with conversation starters in your mind.

“So, where do you live?” you eventually roll out. Realising the unintended personal side of it, you pick it up with: “I mean, I haven’t seen you walk this way before.”

“Cherry,” he replies.

“What?”

“Cherry View Road, dude.” and he looks at you like you’re stupid.

“That sounds like the gayest street name ever,” you retort.

“It’s like one of the longest roads around here, how have you not heard of it?”

“It isn’t a very advanced hobby of mine. Streetnames aren’t my style. Some people, yeah, streetnames are rad and they know everything and everywhere by mere name. Overthere Boulevard, Notthatfuckingway,Harold,itwasaleftnotaright Lane, but me? Nah. Prefer to get lost or some shit, wander the wilds. I’m a fucking free spirit, and I can’t be tamed. They say villages in west Asia speak tales of the wandering douchebag and his never-ending quest for place with a lack of streetnames, because he doesn’t need them. He’s so keen on getting lost man, escaping this dickass idea of names - shits more serious than a meteor strike.”

You can’t stand the deep look that comes into his eyes when he just nods his head and looks away, deep in concentration.

“Yeah, dude, I get that. I understand.”

“It was a fucking joke,” you snap.

“Oh.” there’s an awkward silence. “Still a neat idea though,”

“Whatever.”

You both walk a bit more. John looks more thoughtful than before, and he’s looking at the white, clouded over sky.

“Haven’t got practice today, so I figured I’d walk home early, ‘stead of hanging around.” he says quietly, to answer your earlier question.

“What do you play?” you’re now very tired.

“Hockey.”

You are faintly surprised. You expected football. Or rugby, looking at his physique – taller than you, broad shoulders - actually, you’re not sure what you expected. “’Ain’t that a girl’s sport?”

He glowers at you. “It is not!”

“So is.”

“Is not!!”

“It so is.”

“It is not! Everyone says that!” and he looks miffed, so you drop it.

There’s another pause. “You any good?” you ask, genuinely interested now.

“Nah.” he says, and by the way he rolls his head you know he’s lying.

“Man, I bet you are.”

“Phhst, no,” but hes smiling a bit.

“Dude, you go to practises and stuff, I bet you fucking own on the field or pitch or whatever,”

“Um, thanks?”

The pauses were becoming less awkward. You weren’t sure how you felt about that.

When, a few minutes later, you turn one way and he doesn’t follow, you turn to say goodbye. He strolls across the road and down an alley before you can get a word in edgeways.

You’re slightly confused.

You turn up your music and walk home.

 

 

You slam the front door, after sliding in your key. He isn’t home, as usual.

Bag, floor. Kitchen, fridge – blades in face, apple juice in hand. Grimace.

Sofa, remote.

You channel surf, bored. You still for approximately six seconds on Jeremy Kyle, and another eight on a documentary about foetuses. Nothing is on.

You boot up Halo. Back to the kitchen, throwing shoes off as you go, grabbing some crisps.

Back to sofa. Xbox controller, campaign mission five. You still haven’t beaten it on legendary. Your Bro did them all in a matter of hours, but you are certain he hacked into the game. Honour is for losers and self conscious freaks to him; he plays by his own rules.

You, however, are determined to do it properly.

Watch – 3:56.

You’ve spent over nineteen hours on the legendary setting already in the past few weeks, and you aren’t even close to finishing.

After two hours of frustration, the apartment door clicks and slams. Knowing how quietly your brother can move, you know it’s for show. You know he’s in a good mood in the way he announces his presence.

“Sup,” you call, eyes not moving from the widescreen.

“Pizza?” it’s a quip, a quirk. A sharp noise.

“Hell yes.”

A large shape blocks you eyesight. He’s holding a menu in front your eyes. You furrow your eyebrows in protest and try to move out of the way.

You pause the game right after you die, again, and snatch it from him. He chuckles, eyes glinting behind sunglasses identical to yours - anime triangles - and fucks off to his room.

You roll up and pull out your mobile - you don’t have a landline. Bro refuses to pay for a phone line, or something. He’s a paranoid piece of shit.

You dial up the company, and fill in an order for five large pizzas. Three margarita, one pepperoni, one ham and pineapple. You finish the call.

You’ll need Bro’s wallet when the delivery guy arrives. You feel a bit sorry for the dude, having to climb thirty floors - the elevator cut two months ago.

Then again, you never used the elevator, and you’ve always done fine. You never used it because it smelt of piss.

Sometimes there actually was piss in it, among other things.

You’re wealthy. Your Bro works online for some weird puppet pornography site, and it pays. You joke that two bachelors living in a penthouse will always fuck stuff up and when it comes to the apartment, the joke is no longer humorous. Neither of you clean anything. Your wealth doesn’t really show, except in expensive electronics and your brothers clubbing and DJing hobby / addiction / lifestyle.

You return to the game.

Another hour, and there’s a knock and a doorbell.

You hear a small shuffle, another purposeful noise to inform you of your Bro’s presence. You think he is answering the door, but instead leaves his wallet on the coffee table and leaves again. You scoff at his laziness, but scoop the wallet and go to answer the door obediently. You don’t argue with the big man.

It’s a girl, around your age. She beams at you, cheeks flush a bit from the climb.

“Oh, um, hi!” she says, pushing the boxes forward a bit. You can feel their warmth and you take them off her. “That’ll be £77.85!”

You don’t even flinch as you hand over four twenties. You smirk a bit – you’re sixteen for god’s sake, of course you’re going to laugh at drug humour - and you think she thinks the smile is for her. She seems a bit awed by it.

“Having a party?” she probes, looking around you, inside the flat. Her round glasses flash in the yellow light of the corridor. She’s wearing a Dominoes shirt and hat, a vision in navy and white, long dark hair cascading off of her polo. She is literally ad space, with exactly eleven logos on her, and you think you see her shiver in the cold as she pockets the money in a snapsack, smile never fading. You feel nothing. “Nah,”

“You must be hungry, then!” and she giggles.

You shrug.

“Enjoy your meal!” and she gives you a broad wave as she walks back down the corridor.

You think you’ve maybe seen her before.

You shut the door and walk back inside.

Three raps on Bro’s door, knuckle against wood, and he answers you. He raises his eyebrow at the five pizzas, barely noticeable under his shades and hat and fringe, but he takes the top three without hesitation. “Cheers, kid,” he says, shutting the door again. You never really know what he gets up to.

You drop the wallet back on the table. You drag your pizzas back to your room, and your computer, a mirror of your elder. You needed a break from gunning down aliens.

 

 

John doesn’t show up to school on thursday. You next see him period three on friday, when he is kicked out of his English class again.

“Hey,” he chirrups.

“Yo,” you reply, not even looking at him.

“Looking forward to tonight?”

“Yeah, about that.” you say, and turn to him. “I’m not quite sure it’ll be my thing. I don’t quite fancy getting wasted with a bunch of people I don’t even know.”

He looks crestfallen, and he punches your shoulder.

“Aw, come on man, you said you would!” and he’s pouting, true to god pouting. Other kids are starting to look, and their whispers are seriously ticking you off. He lowers his tone a bit. “I spent the whole of yesterday buying out this dude’s brother’s booze, cost me like three hundred quid, the least you can do is show up.”

You want to ask him why the fuck he’s so invested in you going. You wonder where the fuck he got £300.

You set your jaw, and he pouts back. Showdown, fight club, blue corner red corner - ding, ding, ding.

“You look ridiculous.”

“Well, you look worse!”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you always look like you’re trying too hard to impress someone,” he stabs back wildly.

“That’s me.”

“Phhst, yeah.” he pauses. “Who?”

You look deep into his eyes. He can’t see past your sunglasses, but you make sure to jut out your neck and your body enough, leaning on your palms towards him. “You,” you deadpan.

He blinks a few times, face picture perfect with wide, squid eyes. You note they are very blue. You think of toothpaste for 8 year olds and the stuff you put down toilets.

You continue with your work, satisfied at his response. He doesn’t say anything for a long time.

“Really?” he says.

 You sigh heavily. He twigs the joke and smiles. “Haha, nice one man.”

“Your expression was worth it.”

“I’m surprised you can even see anything through those.” You snort. He lets you work for another few minutes. “Well, I’m not gonna like, force you. I mean, if you wanna come, I’ll be by Tescos at like, 8, to pick you up.”

“Alright,”

“It’ll be cool if you could come,” he says hopefully.

“Why are you even talking to me?” you finally ask, about three days late.

He looks a bit taken aback. “Well, I, um, you’re cool.”

“You didn’t think so a week ago,”

“Yeah I did,” he says, with a touch of pride.

The bell rings again. This time you’re the first up, and you exit quickly, to the next lesson.

You wish it was lunch. You need a light.

 

 

The evening comes too fast.

You’re smoking on the roof of your flats and you can’t make up your mind.

The city whines beneath you, tires screaming and sirens blaring. A grimey pigeon hops on the bar beside the tv satellites and the air con. It picks at a small white stone, probably thinking it was wheat based, cooing in confusion.

You finish your fag quickly, throwing the butt at the bird, and step back inside.

 

It’s 7:47. You are walking to Tescos, and you are insane.

You are wearing your usual hoodie and jeans. You have your phone on you, but no other valuables. You found one bottle of vodka tucked under the sink, and that is in a backpack. You told Bro you were going out for the night, and he just shrugged.

The sky is dark. The streetlights are orange. Fingers made from tree shadows steeple with curiosity, bated breath made of car fumes.

You approach the convenience store, and there he is, bathed in light. He’s leaning on the wall outside, lips set in a frown, glare lighting his face in a funny shape. You think maybe he looks sad. Upon noticing you, he rights himself.

“Hey! You showed, nerd!”

“Yeah, yeah. Figured you needed the coolkid of the block to show his face.” No. You showed up because you inadvertently made a promise, and as much as you don’t know this guy from adam, you want him to think well of you. Good impressions and all.

Unlike your Bro, you’re a good guy.

You think.

“Phhst.” he makes like he wants to ask you something, but shakes his head. “Come on, then,” and he’s trotting across the street, and hops into a beaten, black Citroen. You didn’t know cars were involved, and you hesitate, suddenly very aware of the dangers.

There is a girl in the car, behind the wheel. She waves at you, and you recognise the wave and you recognise her. It’s pizza girl, this time with a sincere lack of corporate branding.

“Hey!” she calls, and motions for you to get inside. She’s his friend. You hesitate once more, before mentally slapping yourself - _come on man, get a grip -_ and hopping in.

She puts on the pedal before you can get your seatbelt on. You fluster with the clasp, jittery, and John snickers at you. You ignore him.

“How far away is this?” you ask.

“Five minutes!” pizza-girl answers.

You shoot John a then-why-the-car? look. He understands, but turns away. “Booze in the boot, dude.”

He taps on the window, a nervous tick, and pizza girl taps on the steering wheel in return. “So what’s your name, shades?”

“I could ask you the same thing, pizza girl.”

She giggles like she did before. “Jade Harley,” she answers, “and pleased to make your acquaintance!”

“Oh man, way to break my heart. Here was me thinking we were best pals.” you see John smile.

“You never gave me your name, loser.” she says it in an endearing way.

“Oh, yeah. Dave.” John’s breath hitches, fogging up the glass, and you look at him. “…Dave Strider.”

“Cool name, nerd.” he says, not looking at you and smiling at the houses that pass in orange and royal. You suddenly remember you never told him it.

“Yeah, I’m secretly a porn star.” and John laughs and Jade laughs and the car swerves and you don’t laugh but maybe you smile a bit.

 

 

The party has started before you get there. It is a fairly average terraced house, on a fairly average road, and despite your lack of local knowledge, you know where you are; it’s on the way home from school. When you pull up the house is blaring music so loud the concrete drive is shaking.

You wonder what the fuck the neighbours think.

You walk in bearing crates of lager. John carries two.

Upon entering, you get cheers and slaps on your backs and more laughter. You feel like snarling, but instead you smirk, confused and maybe a bit worried. Jade yells something but you don’t hear her.

An unknown drink is thrust into your hand, piss coloured and tepid. When you look up again, expression less disdainful, John and Jade have melted away.

You spend approximately two minutes standing around in the crowd, debating whether or not to drink the offending liquid, before you ollie the fuck out of there and into the back garden.

There are a few kids out here, smoking. They see you approach and offer you one. You eye it too with suspicion, trusting nothing in this new house and new place with new faces, before a girl laughs and tells you to relax. It doesn’t smell of pot, something Bro smokes quite frequently, so you take a drag.

You learn that the girl is called Aradia, the dude Sollux, and the other girl Feferi. They tell you your shades are cool, and Aradia asks you if you go to their school, because I’m fairly sure I’ve seen you around? and you say yes, yes you do, but you don’t hang out much because everyone sucks. They agree. You like them.

The song changes to something with more bass. Feferi says something about wanting to get another drink, and she and the dude go back inside. You spend five more minutes smoking with Aradia, who swaps your drink for hers and takes a testing sip. She deduces it to be some kind of cider mixed with some kind of lager and no urine at all, don’t worry, and you decide you like her a lot. When she goes back inside an hour later, she winks at you, making guns with her hands - leaving you with her WKD and a smile.

After a few minutes, you follow suit. You need a piss.

The lights are bright and the noises are loud and it’s not like you haven’t been to a club before with your Bro, but it’s really hot. The nasty kind of sticky hot; and you think of whirring fans and water-based icepops with plastic that paints your tongue red with both flavouring and blood and you also think of skateboarding late at night and mosquitoes.

You pass through quickly, tense. Someone slaps your ass and you almost sock the girl behind you.

You know the rule of the upstairs in a house party - you're not naive.  But your body is threatening you with social ostracization via pissing yourself, so you make for the stairs.

You pass pizza girl and some other guy talking in the hall. She drags you aside and your bladder screams.

 “Hey, Karkat, this is Dave!”

“Do I look like a give a fuck? Leave the poor guy alone,” the guy looks rough, and acts like it too. You decide you like him too.

You nod at him in small thanks before addressing the master of the shout poles, “Yo’ any idea where the john is?”

“I don’t know where John is, sorry!” she almost shouts over the music.

“No not John, THE john.” you shout back.

She points upstairs, apologising. You nod in thanks again.

The landing is small. You check the first door to find it to be an airing cupboard. The second is a bedroom door you very quickly close, and the third is a door you can’t budge.

The fourth is wide open, and inside is John and another girl. You linger.

“Vriska, look, I’m really sorry,”

“Oh my god, John. You’re so lame.” the girl takes a swig of her Strongbow and laughs a horrible laugh. “It isn’t as bad as you think.”

“Fuck you. I’m not doing it.”

“Baby.” and she pulls her tongue out at him.

“You’re so immature! I don’t want to get drunk, I’ve got someone relying on me!”

“Aw, poor Johnny’s the designated driver,”

“I’m not.” he says indignantly. “I can drink as much as I like, I’m just choosing not to.”

“Then why won’t you follow this through? Come oooooooon. It was a dare, and you said yeah.” she purrs in a singsong tone.

“Yeah, and I didn’t realise it was serious!”

She places a hand on his shoulder, and he tenses. “Look, you’re gonna do it.”

“You can’t make me.” and she snorts and leans in closer, hand cupping his face. You think that maybe you really shouldn’t be witness to this, until he snaps out a confident, “Stop it, neither you or I are drunk enough.”

She backs away and removes her hands. “Ugh. You’re no fun.”

She turns to move and you flashstep into the fifth door, which, conveniently, you find is the bathroom. The conversation crosses your mind as you relieve yourself, and when you're finished, John is outside the door, looking down the stairway. He turns to you, apparently oblivious to your snooping.

You praise the Based Madoka, and all of your Bro’s gods of irony.

“Hey, Dave!” he grins. “Having fun?”

No. “Yeah,”

He nods. “I’m going back downstairs - do you want a drink?”

“Sure,”

You follow him down the stairs and into the kitchen, fighting the rabble and cutting a path with his grin and his hands.

He pours you some cider, which you wield in one arm as a sword, wishing it were a shield.

“Aren’t you having anything?” you ask him, curious.

He shakes his head. “Just you wait!” and he spits the words out in a mix of excitement and pre-emptive regret; he grabs a bottle of vodka and dives back into the living room. You don’t have the time or the heart to tell him that that might be a bad idea. You wonder if that was the dare.

There’s shouting and laughing and the music picks up even louder. The lighting shakes a little and you note a cloud of dust from the ceiling.

You take a swig of the drink he poured and feel like you're missing out on something.

You sniff as a guy staggers in, and there is a stench compromised of pot and that strange popcorn smell you get from not bathing for a month.

“Hey man,” he says, and he sounds completely baked. His lips are quirked in a smile which you know is very false.

The Karkat guy walks in, glares at you like something on the bottom of his shoe, and drags the guy away. Following him is a girl with glasses almost as outrageous as yours, except they are red and oval and not as ironic.

“I don’t even know how he got here,” she remarks, and laughs a gravely laugh.

The drink loosens your tongue a little; you think otherwise you would have ignored her. “He looked stoned,”

“Trust me, I haven’t known a time when he wasn’t. I find it a miracle that he can walk upright.” she faces you, and sniffs loudly. You wonder what her deal is. “Nice shades, coolkid.”

“Yours ‘aint bad either,”

She holds out a hand. “Terezi,” she says.

You shake it.

She grabs your wrist quickly, taking you by surprise, bringing your hand up to her face and licking it slowly. You recoil in semi-horror.

“Your name?” she inquires brightly.

You are a bit shocked, and you wipe your hand on your jeans, suppressing a shudder. “I don’t think I feel very comfortable in divulging that information.”

“We just shared genetic code. I told you my name, the least you can do is tell me yours.” she pauses. “We smell nice together.”

You are trying not to freak out. “Are you high?”

“No, I’m blind.”

“Jesus Christ,”

 

 

You spend far long than thought possible with Terezi.

You find out that she is actually blind, and no, she wasn’t, and has never been, high. She likes law and dragons and swords. You tell her about swords, and then music and comics. She tells you you're cool. You wonder why you’ve never really spoken before. She tells you to come to more parties, and laughed that laugh-from-the-nose.

The kitchen is nice. There’s lots of alcohol, which you both tap into a bit, enough to soften the edges. A few lost couples stumble in, locked with fumbling hands and teeth; troupes of smokers looking only to surface for fresh air breeze by.

The party has been dying down. It is around two am, and a lot of people have moved on to fresher party pastures, other houses, afterparties, or back alleys. The DJ went home half an hour ago, so Ke$ha’s been looping for longer than you can stand. You feel like showing off your moves, because anything is better than this drivel, but you decide the kitchen floor is better. Conversation on politics and school and drink and sex and law and laughter is somehow better, much better, right now, and the cold kitchen floor with the warm musty air is very nice with a tang on the tongue.

That is, until you hear a bang - a crinkle of glass and air, and a shout.

There is laughter. Lots of it.

Terezi stands up. You share a look behind glasses, and she goes to investigate. It is the first time that night you have seen her smile drop. You follow.

The people who are left are drunk. You know none of them.

They have formed a circle, which you both sift through to catch the subject of their attentions.

It is John.

He is on the floor, face down. He is coughing into it, and blood and glass are pooling from his head.

The guy next to you is in hysterics. Another is almost crying from laughing.

John staggers onto all fours, before loosing balance and falling back down onto the glass. His body wracks. A girl opposite you is white-faced and looks like she is about to add to the mess on the floor. No-one makes a move to help.

You don’t remember anything except you are kneeling down beside him. Blood and booze on your knees, blood and booze in your head and your heart and on your hands, and you don’t say a word as you help him up.

Laughter, booing.

Someone throws a cup at your face. You don’t even flinch; it is a blur.

You walk him out, and you are down the road. Your flats are a pillar and a beacon. You consider John’s house but you can only remember something about cherries.

Your legs are drawn to your apartment and your mind is numb from drink and hot air and heat of the house and the cold november air.

John tries to say something, but he ends up just spitting out some more blood and some more glass and some more dignity.

You realise what he was trying to say as he begins to retch, and you hold his hair back as he throws up over a brick wall and a newspaper and an empty beer bottle. He is shaking from the cold and the exertion when he is done.

A dog whimpers.

He tries to push you off him, but almost falls over, so you grab him. He leans on you begrudgingly, helpless. He smells of alcohol and vomit and piss and sweat and blood.

He tries to sit down, but you walk him in silence.

You reach your flats and you punch in the code for the hall door and you begin the climb. He moans as you try and help him up.

He gets to the twenty-second flight and has to sit down, breathing hard. He is clutching his head, and you fear he might throw up again.

Instead he just gets right back up and carries on walking.

You reach the penthouse and your door will not open.

You lean John against a wall as you reach out the spare key from under the mat, and unlock the door. He bends over, arms locked on his thighs, a weak mockery of the pose he was in when he retched. You get him inside.

Completely spent and looking like the alley cat from floor 19 with three legs, he stumbles as you push him towards your bathroom. You head chants something about hospitals and you ignore it.

You sit him on the toilet. The lid is down for the first time in months - you grab the first aid kid next to the shower and are hit with a hazy wave of nostalgia.

You feel like Bro.

After sword fights he would sit you like this. He would tend to your wounds as you are to his. Metal then in your shoulder, glass now in John’s brow. Blood on his clothes, blood on yours; you sit as he would, kneeling in front of him. Your face is as his would be, a thin pencil line. Maybe a 6H.

So nothing changes except everything, and you’re very glad you don’t understand science.

He starts to cry.

You lean back with the wet cloth dripping red and clear and let him sob. Your face and your mind and your body is still and patient as you watch him and feel nothing. He rubs his eyes and a trickle of blood seeps down his cheek, diluted with sweat and salt, and you think he might be sober now. His eyes are closed.

You take off the empty frames of his glasses carefully. They are smashed. He doesn’t protest. You do not know what happened. You take off your glasses too, maybe in sympathy. They are put them to the side, on the floor, next to his.

Something lurches in your stomach at the sight but you point the blame at the drink. You are not drunk but you are not too sure of yourself right now, and everything is muffled.

You bring up the cloth again, and pull out another shard. He grimaces and whines.

When you are done, he is breathing with a shaking breath, softening the tension in his eyes gradually. After a while he is flickering them open.

“You have freckles,” he says weakly, a smile the brother to a lightbulb in a crack den. He collapses, dark skinned body limp on the white, white porcelain.

You catch him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dave says some gross stuff later just as a heads up  
> also my writing is getting worse why is that

Something pokes your cheek.

Your eyes bolt open, wary of sword fights and surprise attacks and puppets and your mind is suddenly racing with the thought of pain coming quickly and sharply and humiliation trailing in shortly after - but instead you see a surprised and unfamiliar face blinking at you, with doubt in the expression and a finger on your cheek.

“Hey,” the face whispers.

You sit up.

You are fully clothed, minus shoes. You are on the sofa. The person is John, apparently, and he is standing beside you. You have crumbs in your hair, you smell funny, and your shades are gone. At the movement of your hips you realise you need a piss. Your watch and nails and jaw have sweat under them, and it is gross. You need a shower.

You head promptly reminds you of the alcohol, and you feel your face snarl in response.

“You alright?” John asks and you remember last night and look up at the side of his head and it is bruised and scabbing badly, wetly, in green and yellow with pus and it might need another clean, you think, and another and another until the scab returns in brown and red and it is Healing Well.

“It seems to be doing okay,” he answers to a question that wasn’t asked, following your eyesight.

You nod and your head protests. You need a cigarette.

“Thanks,” he says and the sincerity and honesty makes you feel ill.

“No problem,” and your voice is hoarse and you wipe the dried spit from your mouth and rub the dried gunk from your eyes.

“I was gonna, uh, ask where you put my stuff,” and his stomach adds by asking another question.

You are disorientated for a moment.

You remember carrying him back into your room - it was a real struggle, he weighed a ton - and leaving him on your bed. The glasses are still on the floor, you think.

“’glasses are fucking smashed to shit, why the hell do you want them?” you need a glass of water.

“I meant my wallet.”

You think again, and you can’t bring up an answer. His stomach growls. You stand up.

“I need a piss,” you think you say. He flashes you a tired smile.

You wander off and relive yourself. The lights are off and it is dark and grey and your face in the mirror doesn’t appear to differ.

You scratch your shoulder as you amble into the kitchen and grab a carton of apple juice and you notice some indian lying around, so you grab that too. John is sat on the sofa staring at the turned-off television and you join him, brandishing the food.

He takes a swig of juice from the carton with a bit of doubt, but doesn’t protest, and slurps down some cold korma to accompany. You follow suit in silence. You would think it was nice, were it not for the headache and the weirdness of it.

“We should go to McDonalds.” you say suddenly.

He looks at you, curious. “I haven’t got any money, dude.”

“I need a strawberry milkshake.” and you do. You need it desperately - and as heavenly as AJ is, you find yourself salivating at the mere mention of it. Bro had told you it was the best cure for a hangover ages ago.

“Same.” he agrees.

“I have money,”

He stops for a minute. “Yeah. Yeah let’s go,”

You look at his filthy shirt again.

 

 

He is wearing your old record shirt and your old hoodie and your old jeans. It is cold outside, tarmac damp from a small shower earlier.

You both decided fresh air and milkshakes were the way to go. It is 12:53. You are on a bench outside of the parking lot by the drive-thru.

You haven’t said a word to each other.

The sky is white again and you think about Buck 65 and rain and how you could’ve spent the money on something else.

John is leaning with his elbows on his knees. The clothes are too short, but he doesn’t seem to care; the wound on his head seems to be the only point of focus from anyone. His face must be permanently etched in a half-smile, you think, as you haven’t seen it drop.

You feel your headache melt away a bit and you suddenly wonder what the fuck you’re doing.

Why are you helping him? Why the fuck did you dress him in your clothes and buy him food and let him sleep in your bed and tend to his wounds - this isn’t some fucking chic-flic for god’s sake _what the FUCK are you doing?_

You left your cigarettes and your shades and your mobile at home and you sigh.

“Dave?” John says.

“What?”

“That’s your name, right? I’m pretty sure it is, but I-”

“No. It’s Elizabeth.” you interrupt.

“Seriously, is it Dave?”

“Yeah.” you think. “But my middle name actually is Elizabeth.”

He blinks slowly and you think he might be in pain and you think he might not be able to see well without his glasses. “Really?”

“Yeah.” you are, very unfortunately, sincere.

He shakes his head a little. “Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, shame on you.”

“I think you’ve fallen for that shit like, eight times now.” you feel a smirk creeping onto your shadeless face, and he slurps his milkshake.

“No way,”

“Uh-huh.”

“Fuck off,” and he laughs, and you think it sounds kinda sad. He bites his lip as he pops off the cap and twirls his straw around the bottom.

“I don’t think you can get much more outta that,” you say.

He smiles another of those strained smiles. You’re going to have to start categorising them at this rate, write a fucking manual on John’s smiles. Then you can just kinda hold a book up to his face and be able to instantly translate them. Strained smile #4, means “thanks for the milkshake, Dave, it was fucking great”.

“Fuck off,” he repeats, still smiling.

You snort and close your eyes, leaning back and sagging your shoulders. You could really do with going back to sleep.

It’s quiet.

“I’m really sorry.” he says, and you don’t reply. Sincerity is not your forte. “It wasn’t meant to go like that.”

There is a lengthy pause and you maybe think he’s done, but he continues. “Uh, I put you in a ridiculous position and I’m, uh, really grateful you like, helped. I don’t think anyone else would’ve. I mean, that’s pretty cool of you.”

You hear him tap on the wooden bench erratically, and you think it might be morse code. Save us, we just ran into one of those giant iceberg things right now, save us dude come on this aint fuckin cool, were dying over here and for some goddamn reason we aint got no fucking lifejackets or lifeboats or anything, come on man, come on- “But, like, you had fun though, right?”

You shrug.

“Okay.” he says. He stops tapping, because the ship has sunk and everyone’s dead and poor little baby Tommy back in New Orleans ain’t got a daddy no more.

You feel his weight lift off the bench and your eyes flicker open, and he looks sad and guilty and it makes you feel sad and guilty in return.

He doesn’t look at you as he turns to leave.

You don’t stop him.

 

 

After two hours you decided that you were done with freezing your ass off alone, so you stumbled home.

You went to bed and slept until 8:38pm, when you decided to make music. You fell asleep again at 7:03am and before you really knew what was happening sunday was gone and it was the morning of school.

The lessons so far had passed without a hitch, as usual, except your History teacher giving you the mouth because you didn’t do your homework again. Rose wasn’t in today, god knows why, so you sit alone at break by the wall and you smoke in solace.

“Dave?” and it’s him again.

“What.”

“I, uh, I’ve got your clothes.”

“Okay,” you say, and part of you is grateful and another part is beyond annoyance. He’s fishing them out of his backpack and you're just watching him. You haven’t moved.

He has a new pair of glasses. They are rimmed in green.

Your gaze travels to the side of his head, and you feel a small glow of satisfaction as it looks like someone’s cleaned it and yeah, it’s healing better.

He coughs and looks away and you blink. You throw your bag down on the floor and watch him, feigning disinterest and playing with your cigarette, as he shoves a bundle into your bag. He stands straight again but averts your gaze.

“I know you don’t wanna hear it, okay? I’m not stupid. But you know I’m sor-”

“Save it.” you mumble, but it cuts through his words.

“Okay.” and he’s quiet too and the awkwardness is almost as thick as that soup your Bro tried to make when you were a kid. Christ, that shit was bad. You’re so fucking glad he never cooks anything.

You turn back to face him but he’s gone.

After ten minutes you sling your slightly heavier bag over your shoulder and walk back to class.

 

 

You slam the front door, after sliding in your key.

Bag, floor. Kitchen, fridge – blades in face, apple juice in hand. Sigh.

Bro’s on the sofa.

“Mad Snack’s Yo?” he says.

“I’m cool,” you’re not in the mood for videogames.

He catches on immediately. Fuck him, he never misses a thing. “What, you worried I’ll kick your ass?” Translate: Wanna talk?

“Nah.” Translate: Nah.

He is quiet for a tiny second, as if he expects you to say more. He’ll probably strife you later or something because you didn’t respond with anything witty or ironic enough. In return, you’ll probably make up something to defend the use of “nah” as being the ultimate form of irony, bordering on sincerity. Yeah, that battle’s in the bag, you think. “I’m going out tonight,”

“Okay.” you pause. “I don’t care.” you sip your AJ carton.

He chuckles. You sit on the sofa next to him, and change the channel from _Judge Judy_ to the next, which is airing one of those terrible housewife programs.

“Hey,” he whines in fake protest.

“Dude, the _Housewives of Orange County_ is way better than that shit,” you smirk.

He shakes his head. “They’re not even in the same league,”

Dodge. “Yeah man, you’re right, _Housewives_ is waaay better. That Judy hag must take pills, she’s always PMSing or something.”

“Weak.” he comments. Yeah, it was, but like hell if you’re gonna admit it. Instead you take another sip, and recline a little.

You banter casually, swapping snide comments about the credibility of the various wives tits, until the advert break.

“So who was the dude?” he asks, face locked on a ancient Hastings Direct ad (oh-eight hundred-double-oh, ten sixty-six). “’ain’t seen him around here before.”

You are pretty sure he’s talking about John, but you shrug.

“Yo, look, at the risk of sounding like someone who gives a shit, I’d like to know why the hell you both spent so long in the bathroom.”

Witty response, witty response- “Well, uh-” fuck.

“Kid.” he turns to you, face stalwart. He flicks your head with a gloved hand.

Oh. You suddenly get it.

“Ew, ew ew ew god, god no. No. Ew, no, Bro. No. You fucking perv,” You move your hands frantically, face aghast, mind suddenly swimming with- “No, no, no. His head, it was his head, his head was bleeding- god-”

He smirks loudly. Because that is a thing that he does. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispers in what you think is a fatherly tone.

You hate him. “I hate you,”

He ruffles your hair and snorts. You don’t hate him; that was actually pretty funny.

“I dunno, man.” you shrug again. “I think someone hit him round the face with a bottle of Jack Daniels’ or something. ‘Seems to be doing alright, though, was in school today.” You suddenly feel a bit proud.

“You just brought him ‘round here, fixed him up and that was that?” he sounds very faintly impressed. “How old are you again?” He’s fucking with you, he knows how old you are.

“Old enough,”

The jingle for the Morrisons advert sings in the distance. “Still haven’t answered my question of who the hell he is,”

“I said, right? ’kid from school.” You were point five of a second from describing John as a friend.

He makes a small noise of appreciation. “Chinese?”

“No, what? He’s not-”

“For dinner, dumbass.”

“Oh.” He smiles. “Oh yeah, chinese sounds cool.”

He hoists himself upright, brandishing a hand for your empty carton, which you pass over. You hear him walk across the flat, and kick something. “Move your fucking bag,”

“Sorry,” you call.

“You’re not sorry, you little shit,” he says endearingly. “Move your bag,”

You slide off the sofa reluctantly and carry your bag to your room, throwing it on your bed. You shut your door.

Oh, yeah, John gave you your clothes back, didn’t he?

You unzip your bag and notice that your clothes have been... ironed? What? You shove them in your drawers unceremoniously, re-scrubbling them into a mess. Whatever.

You go to zip your bag back up, but something glints in the half light of your bedroom-come-darkroom. You fish it out of your bag.

It’s a pair of sunglasses.

Normal ones.

Nothing like your pointy ones; they’re just simple, honest sunglasses. Gold rimmed. An imitation of Ben Stiller’s, possibly.

There’s more. There’s a folded note, and a paper bag. You open up the paper bag to find a cookie. Bemused and also slightly pissed off, you unfold the note.

 

“sorry about this. when I came home and explained the whole thing to my dad he just kinda leapt at the chance to show off his stupid baking. also, he washed your clothes. i told him not to bother but he didn’t stop. hes weird like that. oh yeah, i also found these really cool glasses online ages ago right? so i bought them. but i never wear them, because i look really dumb in shades? and i think you would look cool in them. so i thought you might get more use out of them than me, or something, if you ever felt like a change from those weird triangle ones, or whatever, haha! not that i don’t think they’re cool, because they are, don’t worry! thanks, man. yeah, you’re cool. wait what the hell am i saying?? you're not cool at all. you suck! but in a good way. you're kinda awesome, i guess. so like, thanks. yeah! - john (ghostlyTrickster)” 

 

You sit on your bed.

You read over the note three times.

There’s a smile on your face.

 

 

“Sweet and sour pork, right?” Bro calls.

You saunter into the kitchen. Slouch on the doorframe, arms crossed, smirk drawn like a sword; drawn for show. Poster red converse, skinny jeans, record shirt with the red sleeves.

‘Stiller shades.

Bro turns to you and smirks right back, equally cocky, hands on hips. He raises his head just a tad. You run your tongue across your top teeth and taste chocolate between your molars.

 

 

That was the first time you even came close to defeating him.

For once, neither the concrete floor nor his sword stung, and you laughed at the end.

Bro laughs with you, slaps your back, and you both eat shitty chinese from down the road while rewatching Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann for the umpteenth time. One day the neighbours are going to file a complaint for noise levels, the way you and your brother roar with laughter after only a few beers.

When you hit the hay at around 2am, you realise he said he was going to go out. You wonder if he cancelled his plans just to chill with you.

 

 

 

You wake up the next morning to your nightmare of an alarm clock.

Bleary eyed, you stumble into the shower. You then stumble out of the shower and get changed into yesterday’s clothes. Without any deodorant. The shower is, therefore, rendered useless. You couldn’t really give a shit.

You throw on your triangular glasses instinctively and look in the mirror.

You replace them with the ones John gave you.

 

 

He’s looking at you and grinning.

Won’t stop grinning, sat next to you in English. Part of you wants to grin back, but that would be weird.

He goes to say something but his smile suddenly falls and he looks away.

“Thanks, man.” you say.

John turns back around and beams. “I didn’t think you’d wear them!”

“Of course I’d wear them.” cheesy, really cheesy, that was cheesy, cheesy and weird- “Irony, dude.”

You really need that John smile translator. You think he might look quizzical. “Irony?”

“Yeah, man. These shades are even more ridiculous than the anime ones, so they’re more ironic.”

“I’m not sure that’s the definition of irony,”

“The fuck would you know?” and he snickers.

There’s a pause.

“Tell your Dad thanks,”

“For what?”

“The food,” you think. “and washing the clothes.”

He shakes his head, and his hair bounces. “No way, I’m not going to associate with his damn cooking.”

“Why not?”

“Because!” he says, and he sticks his tongue out. “Packet mixes are gross.”

“I thought it was pretty sweet, man,”

He pulls a disgusted face and it takes all you’ve got to not burst into laughter. “No. Just no, Dave.”

The bell goes.

“Want a light?” you ask him.

 

 

Turns out his surname is Egbert.

You spend ten minutes rolling out pun after pun and actually end up spinning a small rap about the Eggman of Bertville. Rose tells you the ballad is worthy of a tapestry.

You tell her it better include at least twenty internet memes - me-mes, Dave, at least pronounce it right -, and she should start work immediately, else it would classify as treason to the Bertville High Council. John asks what you mean and, after you explain, proceeds to have a small conversation with Rose about knitting. She informs you that knitting is very, very different from weaving, and she’s so very sorry that she isn’t qualified enough to comply with the demands of the Council.

After half an hour you realise that you’ve all forgotten to go to class.

“Don’t worry about it, man,” he says, grinning.

“I can’t! I’m worried for my 100% attendance, jbert. What will they think of me? I’ll never be the prom queen!” you screech in a falsetto. John and Rose laugh.

“Are they even doing prom this year?” John asks.

You shrug. Rose answers. “Yes. June twenty-sixth, I believe.”

He snorts. “It’s dumb.”

“Seconded,” you answer.

She smiles and smokes a little. “You didn’t go last year, did you?” the question is directed at you.

“Nah,”

“Why not?” He follows Rose’s lead and takes another drag.

“Dude, think about what you just asked. Would you rather get all fancy for a bunch of dicks you never want to see again, or fuck around at home and play Donkey Kong for eight hours?”

He shrugs in agreement.

“I’m going to assume you went, John?” she says.

“Yeah!” his face falls a bit. “But it was, yeah, kinda dumb.”

She nods. “Agreed.”

“You went with that chick, didn’t you?” you ask.

“Kanaya, yes.”

“Sick.” you stamp your butt into the ground.

“So like, do you guys come here every day?”

You both nod, and you shoot Rose a look. She smiles, and you smile back. John smiles too, oblivious.

“Well I was just asking like, if I could smoke here more often? Is that okay?”

“Sure,” Rose cuts in front of you. “Sorry for the hostility the other day,”

“Oh no, I understand. I won’t tell anyone or anything.”

“This isn’t some “special place” and we are most certainly not protective, don’t worry.” fuck Rose. Fuck her a lot. That was a deliberate stab if you ever saw one. Passive-aggressive my ass. “You should feel free. I’d like to think a friend of Dave’s is a friend of mine.”

You feel your head snap to her in surprise.

She ignores you and casually smokes some more. “But only on the condition you bring in some of those cookies.”

Okay, how the fuck does she know about that?

John scowls. “Fuck you,”

She laughs gently.

 

 

 

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ghostlyTrickster [GT] at 19:47pm! --

 

TG: do you ever just

TG: look at yourself

TG: and think

TG: why the fuck did it take me so long to work that out

TG: i mean, hypothetically

TG: because im fucking flawless as im sure were all aware

GT: yeah, you keep telling yourself that!

TG: fuck you john

TG: this is john right

TG: as much as id love to cyber with another 47 y.o. palestine male im not really in the zone right now

TG: gotta get prepared for shit like that 

GT: your use of “another” is kinda weirding me out, i’ll be honest.

TG: what can i say im a magnet

TG: fine piece of jailbait right here egg

TG: youre lucky, man

TG: not many get this opportunity 

GT: oh my god.

TG: so how do you wanna do this

TG: you just want me to just suck you off or what

GT: okay. okay no.

GT: dave, stop. 

TG: aaahahaha

GT: i am not going to cyber with you!!

TG: wait did you think i was serious

TG: holy shit

TG: do you just not have a sense of humour or something

GT: >:(

TG: ah yes

TG: the angry sad face

TG: we meet again old friend

TG: what a fine relic of the internet

TG: ah yes, 2004.

TG: the emoticons were bountiful that year 

GT: >:( >:( >:(

TG: see those don’t even look like smileys anymore

GT: huh?

TG: when theyre placed next to each other they no longer look like smileys

TG: they just look like abstract aborigine art

TG: >:( >:( >:( >:( >:( >:( >:( >:( >:( >:( >:( >:( >:( >:( >:(

TG: see

TG: wait actually

TG: they look more like

TG: like

TG: i don’t know

TG: like two ants parachuting

TG: it’s a comic strip or something

TG: a really fucking boring comic but bear with me

TG: look theyre falling

TG: in fact fuck that man this would make a great comic

TG: much better than that ctrl alt delete shit

GT: jesus christ.

TG: what

GT: you’re such a loser.

TG: haha

TG: no.

TG: youre the one who used the damn face

GT: yeah, but i didn’t go off into a huge thing about dumb comic strips.

GT: is this just something you do? 

TG: uh

GT: it’s funny!

TG: you’re breaking my heart here

TG: that wasn’t meant to be funny but i guess

TG: if you want it to be

TG: ill be your clown

TG: go ahead and laugh

TG: its funny

TG: i would too

GT: don’t you start singing emelie sandi at me, mr.!

TG: dammit

TG: got me again

GT: brb sorry

TG: huh

TG: okay sure

 

\-- ghostlyTrickster is an idle chum! --

 

TG: you know im fairly sure this isn’t how a first pesterchum convo is supposed to go

TG: like

TG: cant have you conking out on me bert

TG: don’t make me sing some 80’s pop ballads you know ill do it

TG: actually i cant be bothered

TG: fuck man what are you even doing

TG: dude it doesn’t take this long to piss

TG: or i mean you might not be pissing you could be taking a shit

TG: or your terrible mean dad could be forcing you to bake and you could be crying

TG: do you want me to phone childline

TG: “yes hello this is a friend of johns im here to say johns dad is forcing him to eat cake”

TG: okay no im going to stick with pissing

TG: but still man

TG: it does not take this long oh my god

TG: well actually

TG: bro once told me about this guy he knows right

TG: and he went for a shit or something

TG: like all “hey man need to take a dump” im sure you know how that is it’s a fairly standard thing

TG: im sure you’ve gotten up once and needed a shit

TG: good i don’t need to explain that

TG: anyway this guy drops his pants and sits down and takes a dump

TG: except hes faintly aware hes still got something hangin out

TG: and he thinks that’s cool lets just wad this up with some bog roll

TG: again fairly standard procedure

TG: yeah

TG: long story short it turns out hes got half a tapeworm dangling between his fuzzy coconuts covered in shit and piss and bog water and like weird body juices and stuff

TG: he starts screaming right and phones the ambulance

TG: but hes still on the toilet

TG: and knowing fucking a&e they take like 3 hours to get there

TG: because apparently having a tapeworm wriggling around your buttcrack doesn’t class as an emergency

TG: like this thing was actually wriggling and slamming some top notch breakdancing

TG: easily own those celebrity knock-offs on strictly man

TG: im talking that grub thing from alien but in reverse probably all like “yo fuck its bright out here gotta get back in this guys intestine its cold and im hungry” i dunno i sympathize for the poor bugger a bit

TG: like that aint cool

TG: kinda like how you sympathise for babies

TG: so this guy yeah spends three hours on the fucking john crying and pissing himself out of fear

TG: and the paramedics arrive and just start laughing at him

TG: they had to knock him out to stop him screaming

TG: yeah idk what happened after that but one of the medics took a photo on his phone it’s the grossest shit ive ever seen in my fucking life bro showed it me like wow god no

 

\-- ghostlyTrickster is no longer an idle chum! --

 

TG: like that’s not even an exaggeration dude i almost threw up

TG: oh there you are

GT: what the fuck, dave.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry  
> (thats a true story passed on from my stepdad)
> 
> this is mainly a filler chapter. there. will be plot. it is coming. (whispers) soon.   
> (ok maybe not soon my update schedule is a nightmare id say expect a chapter once a millennia ok)


End file.
